Shadow of the Raven: Sons of Kings: Book One

by Millie Thom

  For the past two days Eadwulf had pondered over possible reasons for the brooch’s appearance in the woods, in the very area where Aethelnoth had seen the torches. Of course the brooch could simply have been lost during the hunt and impossible to find beneath the forest debris. Yet if that were the case, Burgred would have returned to the hall that morning not wearing his cloak. Eadwulf could clearly remember his father walking in with his cloak across his arm, and Burgred entering moments later . . .

  But was his uncle wearing his cloak?

  However hard he tried, further details remained a mystery. He could hardly accuse Burgred of any crime, nor yet link the brooch to the rendezvous in the forest. Besides, a meeting of any kind – with or without Burgred – may have been quite innocent. Then why meet in the middle of the night, out of sight?

  ‘So, nephew, learning your Latin like a good, future king?’

  Eadwulf’s head jerked back from the smirking features so close to his face, certain his thoughts had drawn his uncle to him. ‘Delighted to see me, as always?’ Burgred chortled, pulling himself up. ‘Is that expression merely surprise, or do I detect a sprinkling of fear? Surely you don’t fear me, do you, Eadwulf? For the life of me, I can’t think why you should.’

  ‘Of course I don’t fear you, Uncle; you just startled me. What did you want to say to me?’

  ‘Nothing in particular; there just never seems to be time for little chats these days.’

  ‘I can’t say I’ve seen much of you lately, Uncle. Mother says you spend much of your time hunting in the forest.’

  ‘Ah, hunting,’ Burgred said, sitting on the bench beside Eadwulf and adjusting the leather belt around his brown tunic. ‘Now there’s a pastime to be extolled. To hunt down one’s enemy, bringing him to ground from his lofty position in his own domain, gives a man faith in his own abilities.’

  Eadwulf blinked, taken aback by the odd response. He realised the hunt gave men a sense of achievement, a pride in their skills of stalking, and indeed killing. The hunt could also become a battle of wits between hunter and prey. But he’d been taught to view the hunted creature with respect, the primary aim of the hunt to provide food. The animal should be viewed as a saver of lives.

  ‘Do you see animals as your enemies, Uncle?’

  ‘Animals are like people, Eadwulf. The more important they are the further they have to fall and the greater the pleasure I experience in causing that demise.’

  A shiver ran down Eadwulf’s spine. Burgred was not talking about animals at all; he had greater prey on his mind.

  ‘But no, nephew, I haven’t been in the forest since the hunt with your father soon after my arrival here, though I do intend to hunt again, very soon.’ Burgred stood to leave, an unctuous smile on his lips. ‘Now I’ll leave you to your Latin texts; you mustn’t disappoint that humourless monk, I suppose. Will you be in here all morning?’

  ‘I believe so. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just remembering when I was your age. A morning of study seemed an eternity to me, too. I’m sure your mother will soon be here to work with her minions over there.’ Burgred flicked a hand towards the women preparing the meal. ‘I must see her first – we have one or two matters to discuss.’

  ‘Unfortunately, Morwenna is quite unwell today,’ a quiet voice uttered from the doorway. Sigehelm pushed the door shut and came to stand next to them. ‘Your mother sends her apologies, Eadwulf; she’ll not be joining you this morning. She was coming to work at her embroidery when I met her just now. I must say, she looked so pale and tired I persuaded her to retire to her bower to rest.’

  ‘Quite right, too,’ Burgred stated. ‘Morwenna has been overdoing things of late. Her bower’s the best place for her this morning.’

  The door closed behind Burgred and Sigehelm took his usual seat at the end of the table, his eyes full of concern. ‘Not one of your better days, is it, Eadwulf? You can discuss your problems with me, you know. You can trust me. Something is troubling you and your mother would worry if she knew. No, I have not burdened her with more problems. She really isn’t well and will probably not feel herself until your father returns.’

  ‘Thank you, Sigehelm; I never doubted I could trust you.’

  Eadwulf knew he could trust Sigehelm, yet to voice suspicions of treachery involving his uncle would appear as wild imaginings. His tutor had never witnessed Burgred’s innuendos and explicitly hurtful comments, or seen the glimmer of hatred in his eyes. Eadwulf had felt increasingly more uncomfortable in Burgred’s presence as the months had passed, yet he struggled to trust his own feelings. Perhaps he just wanted to find something incriminating in Burgred’s behaviour.

  ‘Eadwulf! Did you hear what I just said? Apparently not, if I read that startled expression correctly.’ Sigehelm smiled tolerantly: not the usual reaction from his strict tutor. ‘I said perhaps we should share a story or poem. You’ll make little headway with your studies whilst your mind is elsewhere. What about one of the old Greek tales – of Heracles, perhaps? Or shall we examine events at the Siege of Troy? Do you know anything about Achilles?’ Eadwulf shook his head. ‘He was a mighty warrior who had only one vulnerable spot on his entire body. And that one weak place resulted in his downfall. Yes, we shall read his story; it will give you something else to think about, at least for a while.’

  * * *

  Perched on cushions of straw in a corner of the stables, Eadwulf and Aethelnoth listened enthralled to the story of Achilles. It had been Sigehelm’s suggestion that Aethelnoth should join them, a suggestion that made Eadwulf smile. His tutor’s motives were as transparent as water. But he was grateful, nonetheless. His friend’s presence had helped to lift his spirits.

  Eadwulf had known exactly where to find Aethelnoth, since the boy spent so much time with the horses he loved so much. Aethelnoth had witnessed his first foaling at the age of six, and helped his own mount into the world two years ago. But Aethelnoth was much less keen on his studies and consistently shirked his morning lessons. His face had lit up when Eadwulf entered the stables, only to darken rapidly when Sigehelm trailed in.

  Yet Aethelnoth shared Eadwulf’s captivation at Sigehelm’s tale of the battle of Troy, the idea of the wooden horse leaving him dumbfounded. ‘My father wouldn’t have fallen for such a cheap trick,’ he scoffed. ‘King Priam was obviously not a very wise man. Father says that to out-think the enemy, we must keep one step ahead, get inside their heads or something.’

  The snorting and stomping of the horses was the first indication that anything was amiss, then the panicked shouts; the reek of smoke assailing their nostrils only moments later. They hurtled to the stable door, aware that it could take barely minutes for wood and thatch to burn to a crisp, and reeled in horror. Searing waves of heat smacked into them. The hall was ablaze, its heavy thatch ready to collapse; angry red flames lashed at the wood-planked walls. People collided with each other, precious water slopping from their pails as they raced to quell the towering flames. Yapping, terrified dogs added to the pandemonium.

  Sigehelm crossed himself, uttering a prayer for anyone trapped inside the blazing hall. ‘Eadwulf; Aethelnoth; stay close to me,’ he ordered, grabbing Aethelnoth’s arm as the boy turned to lead the horses to safety. ‘The stables are far enough away to be safe for now. If need be, I’ll loose the horses when you’re both safe with Morwenna. But may the Lord help these other buildings. The kitchens will probably soon be ablaze. We must hurry. I must help to fetch water.’

  It was then that the Danes struck.

  Yowling men stampeded through the palisade’s main gate, their entrance unchallenged as people fought to control the blaze. Yet they had needed neither to burn down nor scale the palisade wall. The gates must have already been open – contrary to Thrydwulf’s insistence that they be kept locked and guarded.

  Frenzied screams escalated. Sigehelm yanked Eadwulf and Aethelnoth behind the kitchens and, stoopin
g low, they headed for the women’s bower. Suddenly Eadwulf froze. Burgred stood outside the bower’s door – and something about that was so very wrong . . .

  ‘Eadwulf, in God’s name, child, we cannot stand and stare. We must reach your mother and try to flee from the manor.’

  ‘Burgred’s a traitor, Sigehelm!’ Eadwulf spat. ‘He was meeting them in the woods! And he must have started the fire: the hall was ablaze before the Danes came through the gate. He must have opened that for them too.’

  Sigehelm gasped. ‘He’s betrayed us to these savages? But why would he?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, yet. But I won’t let him get to my mother!’

  Eadwulf struggled to break free of Sigehelm’s grip, just as two Danes joined Burgred: one tall, with flaxen hair and plaited beard, the other bull-shaped with straggling brown hair and beard. Sigehelm shoved the boys behind a wattle fence.

  ‘Look, Burgred didn’t run from them,’ Eadwulf spat. ‘He’s talking to them!’

  But Burgred slunk away, just as the bull-shaped man reached for the door. The other stood resolute, grinning at Burgred’s glowering retreat.

  ‘No!’ Eadwulf yelled, bursting forward again. ‘Leave my mother alone!’

  Burgred’s reaction was swift. He turned in his tracks, his face contorted with rage, and charged at his nephew.

  * * *

  Fitful and nauseous, Morwenna curled in a wicker chair, a blanket pulled up to her chin. The air in the bower’s hall was chill after the night’s rain, despite the glowing brazier. She had insisted her women leave her to rest and she relished the peace and quiet. If only she could sleep. Perhaps when she woke the debilitating nausea would have eased; perhaps Eadwulf would tell her what was disturbing him; perhaps Beorhtwulf would have returned . . .

  She realised how feeble she sounded, but this wretched sickness rendered her so physically drained, at a time when it was crucial to stay strong. But it would likely be several weeks before the sickness left her.

  The high-pitched screams struck terror into Morwenna’s breast. She hurtled to the window and wrenched back the shutters, recoiling at the chaos before her eyes. Orange flames and thick, black smoke billowed from the hall and people scattered from fur-clad savages hacking freely at moving targets.

  Eadwulf . . . ! Eadwulf was inside the burning hall!

  She flung back the door but a huge, terrifying shape loomed before her, barring her way: a giant of a man, with matted brown hair and a barrel of a chest.

  ‘Not you, my lovely,’ he leered through repulsive black teeth. ‘It’s not safe for a lady out there.’

  ‘Let me get to my son!’ she screamed, scrambling to dodge round the massive bulk. But for one so big he was nimble on his feet, and he caught her wrists to restrain her.

  ‘Now that isn’t part of the plan. You’re to be kept safe from the fun outside. We’re going to make our own fun in here, just you and me.’

  The callused hand clamped across her mouth, cutting short her horrified scream. She kicked out wildly, but he jeered at her feeble antics. ‘Now this can be nice and easy, or rough and wild, and you could end up covered in bruises. Either way I shall have you . . .

  For a few, terrifying moments Morwenna prayed she’d waken from the ghoulish nightmare. Then the brute shoved her against the wall, unfastening his belt and dropping his breeches before throwing up her skirts. ‘By Odin you’ve a beautiful arse,’ he drooled, his huge hands kneading her flesh. ‘A man could stay abed forever next to that arse.’

  Morwenna’s panic rose almost to hysteria as he thrust into her. But she could barely move.

  ‘The name’s Jarl Rorik, by the way,’ he slavered into her neck, once his lust was sated, ‘leader of this excellent foray into Mercian domain. I shall enjoy taking these lands if all its women are soft and fair like you.’ His dark eyes narrowed. ‘But just remember, if you’re not extra friendly the next time I have you, I may decide to share your considerable charms with my men.’

  ‘Beorhtwulf won’t let you do this!’ she croaked as he pulled back, turning to leave.

  Rorik snorted. ‘I can tell you, my lovely, King Beorhtwulf is no more.’

  Morwenna choked back a horror-struck sob. ‘You can’t have killed him! He’s not yet returned from–’

  ‘From the court of that old fart, Aethelwulf, you mean? We know all about that little scheme to garner aid. But like I said, your husband is no more.’

  ‘What about my son?’ she hurled at his back as he reached the door. ‘Is he dead, too? And Burgred? Are they all dead?’

  Rorik turned and fixed her with a cold stare. ‘Of your son, I can’t be certain. Some of your people may have been spared – thralls are always needed on our homesteads. But I still have need of the king’s loving brother. I shall enjoy playing with him.’

  Morwenna fell to the floor, feeling utterly defiled. The Dane’s foul stench filled her nostrils and she could feel his rough hands pawing her, taking away every shred of dignity. Yet her plight seemed little compared to that of others. She pictured the earth scarlet, strewn with lifeless bodies – including that of her beloved husband.

  * * *

  Eadwulf bolted, knowing Burgred would kill him if he caught him. He dodged frenzied people and pillaging Danes, feeling no panic, no hysteria, only cold determination that his uncle would not bring down his intended prey this time. He sped towards the palisade, seeking the place where the dogs had tunnelled through to the outside, just big enough for him to wriggle through.

  There, next to the pig-pens. He was almost there. Slower than Eadwulf, Burgred had fallen behind, so all he needed to do was get through quickly and head for the forest; hide until his father’s return. But in his blinkered state he didn’t see the four Danes nearing from the sides and suddenly he crashed to the earth, which was still wet from the night’s rain, his knees and elbows taking the brunt of the fall.

  ‘Well, here’s a real lively one!’ The young Dane who’d put out his foot to trip him, yanked Eadwulf up. ‘Fancied your chances with the pigs, did you?’

  ‘He’s mine!’ Burgred hissed, panting to a halt. ‘That was the agreement with Egil. The brat was running from me.’

  A tall, rangy Dane stepped forward, arms folded across his chest. ‘As far as we know, Mercian,’ he spat through his drooping moustache, ‘you’ve kept your side of the bargain. And so have we! We’ve dealt with this royal manor as you requested. But I’ve no recollection of any agreements about who we take as prisoners.’ His upturned hands and raised eyebrows prompted smirking head-shakes from his companions.

  Burgred glared at Eadwulf with such loathing that the young Dane who’d caused his fall seemed impelled to speak. ‘Such hatred, Mercian! He’s but a boy, a relative I’d say from the look of you both. Save your hatred for your real enemies.’

  ‘He is my most real enemy! He has to die – he and his father, my dear brother. They stand in the way of everything I want.’

  ‘Then you needn’t worry,’ the tall Dane said. ‘The boy will bother you no more because he’s coming with us. Be content that one object of your hatred is dead.’

  The words smacked into Eadwulf. ‘No!’ he screamed, frantically struggling against his captor’s tight hold.

  The young warrior’s fingers dug into Eadwulf’s arm. ‘Be still boy, or we’ll be forced to truss you up like a chicken. Your father is dead. But I’ll tell you this: he was a brave man, a man deserving of respect.’ He glared contemptuously at Burgred. ‘He fought against our men valiantly and died like a king. That may not be consolation to you now, but perhaps later.’

  ‘Don’t get soft with the boy, Godfried,’ the tall Dane urged. ‘He’ll need toughening up if he’s to be much use on one of our homesteads.’

  ‘Don’t presume to teach me how to treat anyone! I sought only to quiet the lad.’

  The tall man grunted. ‘Your fat
her will be pleased on our return,’ he soothed. ‘Plunder always puts a smile on King Harald’s face. But your uncle won’t leave until he’s drained this land of its wealth. Rorik’s not a man to do only half a job.’

  Eadwulf’s eyes met the smouldering green of his uncle’s as Godfried dragged him to the palisade gate. Burgred could barely control his fury. He’ll go to their leaders now, his allies, Eadwulf thought. God make them kill him for what he’s done! If ever a man deserved to die, it was the man he’d once called Uncle.

  * * *

  The frenzied screams had ceased and a deathly silence prevailed. Morwenna huddled on the rushes in a corner of her bower, her knees pulled up to her chin, arms clasped around them. She rocked herself to and fro, her mind screaming grievance for her lost husband and son. Voices sounded now, drawing closer, and panic rose. Would Rorik give her to his men as he’d threatened? She’d rather die than suffer the pain and degradation of repeated, savage rape.

  Rorik squeezed through the doorway, his scornful gaze finding her hunched in the corner. ‘Come out and be good, my pretty, and I might be nice to you.’

  For a fleeting moment she thought to laugh in his face, taunt him with his sexual inadequacies. Say anything that would make him kill her on the spot. But courage deserted her and she remained dumb and petrified.

  ‘You won’t play by my rules? Well, no matter, this time. There’s someone here to make you take notice.’ Rorik turned to a tall, blond-headed man. ‘Bring him in, Egil.’

  Morwenna’s hopes surged. Beorhtwulf was alive – or Eadwulf!

  The wreck of a man was dragged in by two of Rorik’s men, his feet scraping through the rushes, his agonised groans heartrending. Dried blood matted his hair and his left arm hung limp at his side. Further injuries were likely concealed by his stained clothing.